


Five Shirts

by rebelxxwaltz



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Het and Slash, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Other, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clothes make the man, right? Well, Gene Hunt may have a thing or two to say about letting his wardrobe dictate the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Shirts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I decided to finally use my AO3 account, which I've had for awhile now. Eventually I'll go back and post some of my other works here, too. 
> 
> This is essentially a set of short stories based on five different shirts worn by Gene Hunt throughout Life on Mars. It started out as a 'five things' fic, but got a bit too long for the classification, I think... this was originally posted at the Lifein1973 comm at LiveJournal in five parts, and each of the five 'colors' can stand alone and are not in any way part of a linked plot line. 
> 
> POV here is mainly Gene's, but Annie and Sam each get an outing. It's pretty self-explanatory, I suppose... anyway, I hope someone enjoys them!

**Five Shirts**  
  
 **Part I: WHITE**  
  
 _~Gene~_  
  
Gene Hunt in a white shirt was _never_ a good sign.  
  
Out of all the possible items of clothing in his collection, a perfectly clean and neatly ironed bright white shirt was by far the most likely to be accessorized with a magnificent scowl. He knew it, and so did everyone else. White was for the days when Gene was in for a bollocking from the Super; oh yes, there were even times when the mighty sheriff himself had to answer to a so-called higher power. Sometimes he probably even deserved it, but it didn't stop the indignation from prickling along his spinal column like an extremely disgruntled porcupine. Glancing at himself in the mirror, Gene huffed and tightened his least favourite paisley neck tie. After all, if torture was the order of the day he figured he may as well give himself over fully to the experience.  
  
Thinking about Rathbone in his prissy uniform with the starched collar and shiny gold buttons did nothing to quell Gene's irritation as he reached into the back of the wardrobe for his 'best' shoes; the ones that were only worn to church (once or twice a decade), to court (which was fine just so long as the scum got what they deserved), or to meetings with a dickhead Superintendent who probably couldn't jam the stick any further up his arse even with the aid of a pneumatic hammer drill. The shoes felt stiff and unfamiliar as he stalked down the stairs. In the kitchen it was quiet, tabletop conspicuously spotless with the oddly aggressive absence of breakfast.  
  
Gene frowned, remembering the previous night. The job had been worse than usual yesterday-- there had been a double murder, three robbery suspects had caused a violent disturbance in the cells, and to top it all off Chris and Ray had to go and make Gene's life just that little bit more miserable by mistaking a city councilman for a serial rapist and wrestling him to the pavement with even more than their usual level of brutish zeal. All the cleanup had kept him in CID late to begin with, and the call of the Railway Arms had been like a siren song to his frazzled nerves. A few too many Scotches with Tyler had made him feel better, truly, but you just try explaining that to his missus. She'd torn a few strips off him, binned his supper with a dramatic flourish, and made it clear that he'd be enjoying yet another restless night under the scratchy blanket in a spare bed which was at least twelve inches too short to accommodate his legs.  
  
And now the final insult. No breakfast, no carefully packaged leftovers in the icebox, not so much as a cold cup of tea. What was it about women that made them so skilled at radiating hostility by taking absolutely no action whatsoever? As he shrugged into his coat, Gene wished he could be successful with such passive-aggressive tactics once in awhile-- it would certainly take less energy than the usual means of communicating the magnitude of his displeasure. He wondered if he could manage to ask Cartwright for some lessons without earning himself a slap.  
  
He slammed the door behind him, lingering on the front step as he reached into his coat pocket for his driving gloves. His traitorous fingers landed on his flask, instead. The stainless surface gleamed temptingly in the morning sunlight. Surely a nip or two couldn't hurt. After all, what did he have waiting for him? Rathbone's disdain, long minutes of dubiously effective shouting at Ray and Chris, perhaps another Tyler-sized headache with a side order of poorly disguised insanity… and he'd have to do it all in uncomfortable shoes and a white shirt that Gene had felt chafing him 'round the collar before he'd even put it on.  
  
Satisfied with this rationalization, Gene took a large sip of whisky as he settled himself into the driver's seat. It worked through him warmly as he donned his driving gloves and lit a fag. The nicotine calmed him, but you never would have guessed it as he shifted the Cortina into gear and tore down to the far end of the street like a madman, startling several pigeons and narrowly avoiding a collision with an unsuspecting dustman. In spite of himself, Gene smiled ever so slightly. There were some pleasures in life that could still be enjoyed no matter _what_ he wore.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 **Part II: GREEN**  
  
 _~Annie~_  
  
WDC Annie Cartwright knew for a fact that she wasn't the only one who couldn't keep her eyes off Gene Hunt whenever he wore that green shirt, and she had the strangest suspicion that he _knew_ it.  
  
On the days when the Guv wore that accursed shirt it seemed as though he'd blown the bravado meter, eaten a bowl of fearlessness for breakfast, and possibly splashed himself with liquid sex at some point before his arrival in the incident room. Women, if there happened to be any about, fell helplessly at his feet. Annie would go determinedly about her business-- both out of a carefully cultivated sense of professionalism and because she didn't want to give Gene the satisfaction of knowing he affected her that way-- but then he'd smirk at her just so as he barked for his tea with five sugars, those outrageous eyes sparkling like seafaring emeralds as the blush rose to her face of its own accord.  
  
Annie blew a strand of hair out of her eye as she leaned over her paperwork. It really was frustrating.  
  
Even Sam was not immune to Gene's charms on such days. Annie hadn't become a detective for nothing, and she trusted her observations. If it weren't for the fact that she had found out (in due time, after their fifth date and numerous times since) first hand how skilled and… _enthusiastic_ Sam was when it came to pleasing a woman? Well, she might have wondered a bit more about the way his eyes fixed onto Gene with rapt attention, darting around and across the DCI's face as if Sam was resolutely determined not to stare. Just as determined as Gene seemed at times to trap the younger man in his gaze like a snake charmer.  
  
All these elements combined in Annie's mind's eye-- Gene, Sam, the green shirt, and the case file that currently lay open on her desk-- had her thinking back to a night that seemed so long ago. The file was for Malcolm Cox, the very same insolent and lecherous wannabe hard man who had shamelessly groped her during the one-night-only undercover shift in the Trafford Arms. Cox was up on charges including GBH and incitement, crimes apparently committed during a pitch invasion at the tail end of the latest Manchester derby. Throwing down her pen, Annie thanked her lucky stars that Sam and the beguilingly green-shirted Gene were out on a shout and Ray and Chris were busy with interviews. Perhaps if she allowed herself a few minutes of daydreaming it would clear the cobwebs and allow her to focus on the task at hand. Annie let her mind drift back to that night, just over a year ago…  
  
 _~/~/~/~/~_  
  
She had jumped at the chance to join an undercover operation; it sounded so much more like 'real' police work than the tiresome duties she performed in her slightly itchy uniform on a daily basis, even if she _was_ only chosen because she could pull a pint and her tits looked good in a tight blouse. It made her nervous, being close to DI Tyler and under the direct scrutiny of the Guv, and sharing such close quarters with the two of them during their practice run at the Railway Arms hadn't necessarily helped matters. There had been reaching across. There had been an almost gratuitous amount of brushing past in tight spaces, which seemed to verge on the deliberate at times. And yes, she and Sam had even engaged in the stereotypical fumbling of fingers while grabbing for the same pint glass. All of these combined with instances of _both_ men leaning down and speaking close to her ear in order to be heard properly saw to it that Annie returned to her flat that night more hot and bothered than a trip to the pub had ever, _ever_ warranted before.  
  
The next night in the Trafford Arms was tense from the word 'go,' but Annie gathered her courage and played the role to the best of her ability. In point of fact, she was probably the most convincing pub employee out of the three of them; Gene was too direct by nature and too belligerent in practice to be effective undercover, while Sam was just… well, _Sam_. She was so convincing, in fact, that some of the patrons saw fit to take liberties. Most were just being fresh, and were easily dealt with using not much more than a sharp word and a disapproving glance. Others, such as the self-styled thug they called 'Coxy', were a fair sight more persistent.  
  
Sam was occupied for a large part of the evening; between his conversations with the locals at the bar and his lengthy disappearance for 'some air,' Annie found herself managing much of the pub's actual custom. Unfortunately that seemed to mean catering to the gang of drunken louts that Gene had so effectively infiltrated. She had no idea how intoxicated her superior officer actually was, but that could be said of half his ordinary workdays from what she had observed. Annie was careful not to register any sign of disapproval when he joined the others in addressing her by offensive and sexist nicknames as they hollered for more beers, reminding herself that the Guv was simply playing a role.  
  
A little more than midway through the evening, things took an interesting turn. It was a particularly messy night as these things go, and Annie had wandered back to the dingy pub kitchen in search of more bar towels. The search was fruitless, both in the kitchen and what she had hoped might be a supply cupboard adjacent to the gents' toilets. Timing was a funny thing, she thought to herself. Especially _bad_ timing-- Malcolm Cox had emerged from the gents' at just the right moment to block Annie's passage toward the bar area, backing her up against the wall with a predatory glint in his eye.  
  
His sudden nearness caused Annie's bravery to falter slightly. She was cornered, and knew it would be disastrous for the operation if she broke their cover now. She frowned as he further disrespected the boundaries of personal space. "Here, let me through."  
  
Cox chuckled, bracing his hands against the wall on either side of her and leaning in. "No. I don't think I want to."  
  
"I've got to get back to work." Swiftly, she ducked under his arm.  
  
She thought she was in the clear, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her closer. "Now that's no way to treat a new friend is it, love?"  
  
Annie struggled, but his grip was strong and she simply ended up rebounding towards him. "We aren't friends."  
  
Leering in response, Cox stared openly at her breasts. "S'okay. We can get to know each other better…"  
  
Just as Annie was about to give up and utilize her meticulously catalogued policewoman's knowledge of how to subdue a suspect (by kneeing him in the groin for starters, although _that_ wasn't in the handbook), a familiar presence loomed up behind her.  
  
"Oi-- forget about _me_ , sweetcheeks?"  
  
Her assailant's grip slackened, and she felt herself being yanked backward by a strong arm around her waist. She was enveloped by the unmistakable scent of whisky, smoke, and aftershave. Annie leaned the back of her head against Gene's shoulder in relief, at the same time hyperaware of his other hand firmly cradling her hip and playing up the intimate contact so that Cox couldn't possibly miss it. His presence was comforting and terrifying all at once, shivers rising all along her skin as he brushed his lips deliberately against her sensitive earlobe.  
  
"If I've got to pull my own pint, why should I bother keepin' _you_ around?"  
  
The oddly innuendo-laden comment caused Annie to tilt her head so that she could see the Guv's face. The open neck of his green shirt brushed against her cheek, and she marveled at the forcefully territorial gleam in his eyes as he stared across at Cox. Perhaps Gene was more skilled at acting than she'd given him credit for… but the fierce protectiveness appeared to be completely genuine, and to be the target of such actions on the part of Gene Hunt was an intoxicating sensation. The younger man seemed to back down readily in the face of the confrontation, giving Annie a strange look as if to say, 'You and _him_?'  
  
Gene did not loosen his embrace, addressing Cox with artificial conviviality carefully underpinned by subtle menace. "I'll get another round in for you and the lads, soon as I can get this troublemaker back to work, eh?" He shifted their bodies sideways into the nearby doorframe under the pretense of clearing a path, casually brushing the inside of his thigh along the outside of hers in the process. Recognizing Gene's comment for the dismissal that it was, Cox muttered his assent and sauntered down the narrow passageway toward the main body of the pub.  
  
Annie was left alone with Gene, not a sliver of air between her back and the solid bulk of his torso. He was tracing distracted patterns over her hip bone with his thumb, head leaning down over her shoulder as he spoke. She realized that he must have an absolutely perfect view of the substantial cleavage provided by her low-cut top. It wasn't something she would typically wear, but looking a bit tarty was supposed to help the operation… wasn't it? She shivered.  
  
"Best steer clear of that one, petal. Pretty bloody obvious what the man wants."  
  
She could feel the gentle warning vibrating out from Gene's chest where it pressed against her shoulder blades, triggering an involuntary wave of arousal. Annie found that she couldn't control her reaction, shifting against him almost wantonly and emitting a surprised gasp at the way he seemed to squeeze her even tighter in response. _God_ , he felt good like this. Steady and sensual and warm as a furnace. "Guess so," she breathed, allowing her eyes to flutter shut and caressing his bare forearm where it was clasped around her waist. Gene made an odd purring noise, the fingers that had been teasing at her hip sliding up beneath the material of her blouse to stroke the skin just above the waistband of her denim skirt. His breathing was slightly erratic, and the possibility that this was turning him on as much as it was her gave Annie just enough nerve to push the point even further. "So… what do _you_ want, then?"  
  
He stilled, but didn't draw away. His forehead was leaning against her temple in a gesture that seemed tender, and she couldn't help but be aware of how easy it would be to twist her face up and press her lips to his. The idea was wild and irrational and wrong in so many ways, but in that moment Annie didn't care. His oddly affectionate and undeniably provocative gestures pointed to the same conclusion, but she could hear the steel creep back in beneath the smoke-roughened rumble of his voice. "Word of advice, Cartwright." He loosened his arm from around her waist and stroked downward so that both his hands were now gripping her hips, harsh breath tickling her hairline. "You wanna become a detective, yeah?"  
  
The question caught Annie right off her guard, pulling her at least partly free from the sudden haze of lust that had descended around them. Since when had Gene Hunt been interested in her career path? "I-- yes, Guv--" She whimpered as he pulled her tight against him, and she felt his rather large and insistent erection grinding against her tailbone.  
  
"Well then. Best learn not to ask a question until you're sure you can handle the answer."  
  
With that he released her, stalking past and throwing her one last scorching look as he barreled through the door to the men's toilets. Annie watched him go as if in slow motion, taking in the long legs, the ruffled golden mane, and the shift of muscle concealed by the fabric of that green shirt. She leaned against the wall to collect herself, knowing that this brief and slightly unhinged moment would rule her nighttime fantasies for weeks on end and wondering, _wondering_ what it could have been like. If he were a little more drunk and she slightly less virtuous, if they cared a fraction less about their duty or had just a modicum less respect for each other or themselves… but it wasn't to be, and she found that it only made her admire him more.  
  
 _~/~/~/~/~_  
  
Sighing, Annie bundled up her very private memories and picked up her pen just in time to hear the man himself burst through the doors of CID with Sam following in his wake like a dolphin riding the current of an ocean liner at full steam. They were arguing, Sam's wild gestures more or less ignored by Gene as he strode confidently across the room with his head inclined slightly to the side and hands in his pockets. As the two men passed Annie's desk, they slowed almost imperceptibly. Gene gave a small, secret smile that was only seen by Annie, adding in a cheeky wink for good measure. Sam continued to rant at the back of the Guv's head, pausing only to throw Annie a fond wave before Gene spun around to grip the DI by the collar of his leather jacket and slam him through the door to his perpetually smoky office.  
  
There were times when the adversarial affection between Sam and Gene made Annie jealous-- though she was not quite sure toward _whom_ the feelings of jealousy were directed. Knowing that Sam would come home with her that night was some consolation, but she couldn't help but wonder whether she was finally ready to ask the _right_ question-- hopefully one with an answer all three of them could 'handle' together…  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 **Part III: YELLOW**  
  
 _~Gene~_  
  
Gene Hunt _hated_ his yellow shirt.  
  
It wasn't that he cared terribly much about what he wore. In his book 'dedicated follower of fashion' meant approximately the same thing as 'emasculated subscriber to poofterism,' and he certainly didn't have time to hang about comparing fabric swatches like a bunch of bloody women twittering over new curtains for the front room. Gene followed the current trends by default; if the menswear stores stocked pastel shirts and Kipper ties, that was what he bought. He avoided the more flamboyantly printed shirts, vaguely understanding that his frame was large enough to be noticed without kitting himself out like a deranged zebra. Besides which, if he had the sudden urge to see someone dressed like a twat all he needed to do was look at Ray. No, his dislike of the pale yellow shirt was not based on factors which were particularly obvious or superficial, even if it did clash fairly badly with his hair.  
  
…you'd think _she_ would have noticed that. She had given it to him, after all.  
  
As was more or less usual on the Fridays of Gene's newly-single existence, the stupid, buggering yellow shirt was the only one left clean. He yanked it on with displeasure, remembering that he had never liked it, cursing the way it turned up like a bad penny whenever his week at work was so grueling that he barely managed to eat or sleep properly never mind deal with the washing himself or take time to stop off at the cleaners. Any spare moments were spent in the pub, being the free and independent man-about-town he suddenly was. Since his wife had finally up and left, he didn't even pretend to like the shirt anymore. What was the point? After all, what had she really done other than stop pretending to like _him_?  
  
Late March had brought a rash of crime to the streets of Manchester, as was customary each year when the weather warmed and spring fever broke out. Even the criminal underworld hibernated in the colder months to some extent. In direct counterpoint to the totally bollocks Welsh legend about the sight of the first daffodil bringing prosperity, Gene found that these early blooms generally meant some bastard was about to get his teeth kicked in.  
  
The obnoxiously jovial yellow flowers reminded him of long-ago days with his soon to be ex-wife. He remembered plucking a single bloom from a neighbor's flowerbed on his way to pay her a call, and the teasing way she had chastised him because a lone flower was meant to be a harbinger of bad luck. Gene Hunt had always believed that he made his own luck, and back then he had felt unstoppable and certainly not subject to the rules of superstition (or laws regarding flower ownership, obviously). Perhaps he should have listened, although he was often told that listening wasn't one of his innumerable talents.  
  
Thinking about those happier days only made the deterioration of his marriage seem uglier, reminding him that she was gone, which in turn brought him back around to his abiding hatred of the yellow shirt. Maybe he should just bin it… but then there would be nothing left as a last resort when he ran out of wearable clothing. It was one of those-- what was it? Catch-22 situations. Circular logic, or para-something. Paradox, that was it.  
  
 _Paradox?_ He had clearly been spending too much time with Sam. In Gene Hunt's universe words that ended with 'x' tended to come with only three letters and a partner who certainly had a bigger set of knockers than DI Tyler was sporting on his annoyingly lithe frame…  
  
Gene examined himself in the mirror. Not bad, but there was something about the color that looked at once both cloyingly bright and inescapably dingy even when the shirt was spotless. Checking his suit jacket carefully for wrinkles, Gene slipped it over his shoulders and stretched his arms to settle the fabric into place. His personal life may be a sad fucking shambles, but there was no way Gene Hunt was about to walk into his station in a rumpled suit. He was a man in the prime of his life, not some old pensioner who had a mousy washerwoman in twice a week to pair his socks. At least National Service had taught him a thing or two about keeping his appearance neat.  
  
Nine hours later, the yellow shirt was spattered with blood and DCI Hunt's furious and untamed appearance was nowhere near 'neat.' There was a gash on Gene's face and some of the blood staining the shirt was his own, he was sure, but not _all_ of it, not nearly enough. Nobody had had their teeth kicked in-- _yet_ \-- but Gene was ready to rip the clipboard-wielding arms off every doctor and nurse in this hospital if _somebody_ didn't tell him whether Sam Tyler, recently rushed into emergency surgery after taking a bullet in the line of duty, was alive or dead.  
  
The harsh fluorescent lighting flickered in the corridor, throwing the rorschach of Sam's blood into sharp relief against the pale and almost tauntingly cheerful hue of Gene's shirt. Finally collapsing into an uncomfortable plastic chair, overwhelmed with exhaustion and despair and a powerful wave of delayed shock, he felt his mind switch off and wander. Soon he was caught up in a disturbed loop; unlucky yellow flowers, cold steel, the incongruous glare of blue sky and sodding daisies and the flecks of color in Tyler's wide eyes as his body jolted from the rapid impact of the bullet. He looked down at himself and saw that the blood had gone cold and dry, permeating through fabric the pale color of daffodils, now tainted with yet another painful memory.  
  
If Sam made it through this, Gene vowed that he would throw the thrice-damned shirt in the hospital incinerator and walk around half naked under his coat before he'd willingly wear it for another second. _He has to be alive_ , Gene thought wildly, _he's bloody well on duty and I haven't given him permission to die_. A dark corner of Gene's mind reminded him just how frequently his DI countermanded or ignored his orders, but he shoved the thought away. _Not a fucking chance, sunshine_. _Not this time._  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 **Part IV: BLUE**  
  
 _~Sam~_  
  
The blue shirt, Sam thought, really brought out the blue in Gene's eyes. Those changeable eyes, which were mostly green but sometimes grey or blue or a combination thereof. Gene's drowsy, unfocused, _drunken_ eyes in this particular case...  
  
"You try t'protect people and whaddo they do? Spitinyerbloodyface."  
  
Gene was slumped over his umpteenth Scotch, while his second-in-command deftly confiscated the keys to the Cortina. It was one of _those_ nights, without a doubt. Sam knew he could look forward to a poor night's sleep in the lumpy armchair while the Guv sprawled all over Sam's bed with drunken inconsideration, snoring and grumbling obliviously.  
  
When it came to the perpetually raging hurricane of emotions that was Gene, Sam was a skilled forecaster; maybe the best for all his careful observations. At times it was rooted in Sam's well-honed instinct for self-preservation. There was a lot to be said for knowing whether or not the Guv had reached the point of anger which was likely to result in a sudden flurry of physical violence, or if his ire could be quelled by a few whisky chasers bought and paid for down at the Railway Arms.  
  
The Sadness, however, was harder to predict and far more difficult to keep in check.  
  
It would surface at times when circumstances were beyond the Guv's control, a concept that rubbed Gene the wrong way to start with. There were people and things in this world that simply couldn't be fixed-- regardless of whether Gene followed the law to the very last letter or took it into his own uncompromising, leather-clad hands. When the cases involved children, as this one had, that seemed to upset him the most. Sam knew that there were some dark corners of Gene's past that the other man would probably never speak of, but Sam could see them clear as day shining out of those eyes that looked so much bluer when they were clouded with painstakingly concealed despair.  
  
Shooting Nelson a sympathetic look as Gene shouted for more whisky, Sam recognized his cue. "Come on Guv, time we were off home."  
  
Every time he dragged a legless Gene away from the bar at the Arms, Sam remembered the night that Terry Haslam was murdered-- although righteous and unquenchable rage had been the overriding factor in the larger man's actions that night. Sam had been told to _"Piss off"_ many times since then, but he'd schooled himself not to listen. Gene trusted him. He'd said so himself, with unguarded desperation on yet another harrowing occasion when Sam was moments away from giving him up as a cold-blooded killer. Sam had come to think of that trust as a great responsibility. The Guv spent most of his waking hours chasing after criminals and defending his city and his team, so someone needed to be there to look after _Gene_ when all that weight on his shoulders became too crushing to bear alone.  
  
The worst Sam had ever seen him had probably been the day that Harry Woolf died; suicide in prison after serving a scant two months of his sentence, a shameful and restless end for the Superintendent who had been pushed to the edge of life in so many ways. Jealousy, corruption, illness, a cycle of pain spiraling out of control, and for Harcourt Woolf it had all ended in a lonely cell so far away from the Spanish retreat he had envisioned. Seeing Gene, sat there at his desk in that blue shirt, tie unknotted and his face so full of anguish, had brought Sam straight back to that fateful day when they had searched Woolf's office and uncovered his crimes.  
  
 _"Talk me out of it,"_ Gene had implored Woolf. _"Tell me… it's all untrue."_  
  
The sorrow reflected in Gene's eyes when he heard the news of Harry's passing had echoed back to the desolation that haunted his voice that day. The irises set off by the sky blue fabric were so vivid, the color so much sharper without a trembling gun arm for the indestructible Gene Hunt to hide behind. Sam remembered thinking that there are many different ways for a person to be inconsolable, more varieties of heartbreak than could reasonably be counted in two lifetimes, and _never_ enough time or opportunity to make it all right again.  
  
In the end, it was one of the things that had made Sam return to this place.  
  
 _"When you can feel, then you're alive. When you don't feel... you're not,"_ that was what Nelson had told him.  
  
Those words had brought him to the cold concrete rooftop on that day when the sky was so incredibly, _brilliantly_ blue, where the colors of his world should have brought him joy and left him in awe of the struggle he'd endured to return 'home.' Instead all he could think of were the friends he had left in that tunnel and the midnight-tinted depths of betrayal that the Guv would be feeling toward him now, after everything. Just like what he had seen on a bleak day in 1974, watching that lion of a man bite his lip hard enough to draw blood rather than submit to the pull of tears at the news of his disgraced mentor's death. And if Gene could feel that deeply, what more proof did Sam need that the place he had left behind was real?  
  
"Gerroff me, you fairy," Gene groused.  
  
Sam Tyler smiled and wedged himself more firmly against Gene's side, supporting his inebriated DCI's weight and steadying his own footsteps beneath the hypocritical grasping of a blue-shirted arm. They weaved along the pavement to the rundown block of flats, where Sam propped Gene's drooping frame against the side of the building as he fished for his keys. Dark blond hairs catching along the rough texture of the brickwork as he leaned his head back, Gene peered over at him.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Swimming blue-green eyes latched onto indulgent honey-brown with sudden alertness.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
 **xxxxx**  
  
 **Part V: PINK**  
  
 _~Gene~_  
  
The pink shirt was a very clear and concise message, from Gene to Sam with something that in _no_ way closely resembled nancy, poofy, pillow-biting 'love.' The message was simple: _I'm gonna fuck you tonight, Tyler, so leave the door to your shitty flat on the latch._  
  
He could just bust through the door with a well placed shoulder charge or a carefully aimed kick; it wouldn't be the first time and it was a well known fact that Gene Hunt smashes down doors. Somehow, though, this was better. Pulling restlessly at his already crooked pastel tie, Gene was willing to admit that he got off on the implied consent. The idea of Sam, ready and waiting, knowing what Gene wanted and only too happy to give it to him… well, it was just as much of a turn on as bouncing the smaller man off the walls and sneaking in a grope or three. On days when Gene walked into CID wearing that pink shirt, Sam knew from the first cup of tea until the last whisky chaser down at the Arms that he would be having more than just his personal space violated before the night was through.  
  
As Gene found himself once again standing outside of Sam's door, he basked in the sense of anticipation and thought back to the first time that… _this_ had happened. They had been drunk, which he supposed was something of a relief-- not that he was the type to make excuses for his behavior, but there were some things that a man such as his very good self would never own to in the sober light of day. He'd been wearing this exact shirt, pale pink, a birthday gift from his mother-in-law of all people. It had been an ordinary night at the pub, perhaps with a little more whisky than usual. Rather than keep poor Nelson awake all night, Sam and Gene had adjourned to Sam's bedsit in order to continue along their trajectory toward abject drunkenness and to keep taking the piss out of each other, which was what they did on occasions where the drink and the company just happened to be hitting the spot in an unobtrusive but satisfying way.  
  
After consuming a few more drinks, Gene had employed that tried and true standby of calling the younger man a 'poof' due to his odd habits and his tendency to wear trousers that were three times too tight (not that Gene had noticed). Well into his cups, Sam had retaliated by saying that Gene had no right to call him queer while he himself was sitting there wearing a _pink shirt_ of all things. Gene had of course taken exception to this. What red-blooded heterosexual male wouldn't?  
  
…of course, some might question the logic of proving one's manliness by relentlessly screwing a fellow officer of the law face down into his mattress until both men collapsed in a moaning, sticky mass of partially-clothed limbs, resting only long enough to finish disrobing and get each other worked up for round two. Gene, though? It didn't phase him, and it certainly wasn't his fault that Tyler had a pert little arse that just happened to be _begging_ for a good seeing to.  
  
In the morning, they hadn't talked about it. It had surprised Gene that Sam didn't even try-- he would have expected him to be exactly the sort of bloke to start spouting off about his feelings and the 'change' in their relationship, but Sam had simply served Gene a much-needed fry up and launched into a diatribe about their most pressing unsolved case. And that was it, really. Gene thought he caught Sam shooting him the occasional hungry look over the next few days, but lord knew the man was skinny enough that he might just actually be in dire need of a trip to the canteen.  
  
Nothing more had come of it until Wednesday of the following week, when Gene once again donned the pink shirt. Sam had apparently beaten him into the office by several hours, and it was suggested by WDC Cartwright that he would likely be found in the collator's den trying to cross-reference some information relating to known associates of their prime suspect in an execution-style murder. Gene was a strong proponent of the opinion that time spent in that dusty room where case files go to die was a 'flippin' waste of time,' and he certainly wasn't about to let his DI spend the whole bloody day poring over sheaves of paper while crime carried on unabated right on their doorstep. He burst into the room and set to the task of making his feelings on the matter entirely clear, but all he received in reply was the sight of a fairly voluminous file slipping out of Sam's nerveless fingers as he stared at Gene with what could only be described as unashamed, open _lust_.  
  
In a role reversal that was a regular turn up for the books, Gene had been grabbed by his necktie and violently shoved up against the wall between two tall shelving units. Sam roughly stroked his palms over the rosy-hued fabric of Gene's shirt, diving into a hard kiss with a deliciously filthy moan. Seeing and feeling Tyler lose control was an undeniable turn on. Even though it was madness for them to engage in such acts on the premises during working hours he found himself unable to halt the proceedings as Sam dropped to his knees, breathing heavily and wrestling with the fastenings on Gene's trousers.  
  
Gene had given himself over to the licentious sensations, grunting and gasping as Sam devoured his rapidly hardening erection. Sam's hands wandered with intent, one sliding up under Gene's shirt to tweak a nipple and the other squeezing his backside to pull him even further into his mouth. Sam's eyes were shut, small pleasure sounds adding a texture of vibration to the skilled workings of his clever tongue. Gene grabbed at both sides of the other man's head as reflexive swallowing caused Sam's throat muscles to squeeze and rub at the sensitive tip of his cock while his teeth scraped gently along the underside. "Christ, that's good. Sam, oh _fuck_ …!"  
  
His legs had given out from the combined force of his orgasm and the relentless teasing of Sam's mouth, prolonging the aftershocks and refusing to let up until every last drop had been drained with enthusiasm. Gene had known he was in trouble up to his eyeballs then, dragging Sam's face to his and initiating a languorous kiss. He could taste himself, and Sam's meticulously minty toothpaste, and he realized that it simply wasn't enough. Foreheads pressed together, Gene issued succinct orders in his most authoritative voice.  
  
"You're gonna go and tell Phyllis that you forgot some files on your way in." Sam's eyebrows crinkled, and he looked like he was formulating a very well-reasoned protest. "Shut it, Tyler. Trust me, everyone will believe you've been taking your work home, you uptight swot. Wait for me at your flat, because I am nowhere _near_ finished with you."  
  
That stupid grin had graced Sam's face, the one that certainly _could not_ cause a DCI's stomach to do acrobatic flip-flops like a blushing WPC having her bum pinched for the very first time. "Yes, Guv." He had used Gene's shoulder to lever his wiry, stripe-shirted form up from the dusty floor of the collator's den, allowing his hand to linger just long enough to be suggestive. "I'll see you there then, yeah?"  
  
And that was how the pattern had been set. There were odd breaks to the routine; the occasional mutual hand job during a boring stake out or drunken fumble in the alley behind the Railway Arms on a rainy night where nobody would see. The spontaneity kept things interesting, but as soon as the pink shirt entered into the equation there were no questions asked. Like today; the moment their eyes had met, in the middle of a lengthy morning briefing, Gene knew that Sam knew. Throughout the day Sam gazed at Gene like it was his birthday and Gene was a decadent chocolate cake that he couldn't wait to take a bite out of-- which Gene supposed was not all that far from accurate, really.  
  
It worried Gene sometimes, this whole… _situation_. Of course it did. Especially when the two of them shared moments that could be roundly classified as tender. There had been one night where they'd done nothing more than roll around like a pair of teenagers necking on the sofa, bodies pressed together and tongues entwined. As a result Gene had cultivated the belief that kissing was a very underrated activity, especially if it culminated with Sam squirming on top of him like an electric eel on amphetamines. It put Gene on edge, the way these activities seemed normal, and how he looked forward to them the same way he would if Sam were a bird and they were stepping out together-- as though they wouldn't both be disgraced and run off the force if anyone caught them so much as _looking_ at each other in a slightly bent way. But each time he walked up to Sam's door and found it unlocked, knowing it was just for him, those thoughts were relegated to the back of his mind faster than United slipping off the bottom of the league table.  
  
Stepping through the door quietly, Gene vowed to savor the moment. The light of sunset was filtering into the room and Sam was standing by the window in his trousers and vest, looking down to the street below. He peered over his shoulder, big dark eyes sparkling with amusement as he watched Gene throw his coat and suit jacket over the back of the chair, removing his tie in earnest.  
  
"You took your time," said Sam, echoing words that Gene himself had once spoken in this room under very different circumstances.  
  
Gene approached the other man slowly, hands stretching the fabric of his trousers from inside the pockets, watching how the fading light played shadows over the side of Sam's face. Gene moved in until his chest bumped against Sam's shoulder. "No need to rush a good thing, is there? My world famous spam javelin hasn't got any other appearances scheduled for this evening, so…"  
  
The smaller man released a snort of laughter, turning so that they were face to face, just inches apart. "Is that your way of saying 'don't worry, darling, we've got all night'?"  
  
Crowding Sam against the wall next to the window, Gene made sure their lips brushed as he growled a response. "You know damn well I would never call you _darling_ you filthy blighter..."  
  
There was no way of telling who had started the kiss, but it was dirty and deep and fantastic. Gene would never admit it if you'd asked him, but there was something about kissing Sam that was totally liberating; just like with their punch-ups there was no need to hold back, no fear of being too rough or overstepping his bounds. And Sam gave as good as he got, tangling his fingers into Gene's hair and tugging none too gently. Gene pulled Sam into him, wrapping one arm low around his waist and wrenching the bottom of his vest out from the top of his trousers. He pushed the white cotton garment up Sam's torso and yanked it over his head, running his large hands over newly exposed skin and scraping his teeth along the sensitive flesh just behind Sam's ear.  
  
" _Shit_ , Gene! That's…" Sam whimpered, clutching at the now-open collar of Gene's pink shirt. _Pink_ ; the color of hearts and ballet shoes, candy floss and apparently Sam Tyler's kiss-swollen mouth. Breath mingling hot and harsh between them, Gene allowed Sam to steer him back toward the sofa as they both struggled with the remaining shirt buttons. Tumbling backward when the bend in his legs hit the edge of the seat, Gene maneuvered Sam to stand between his knees. He slowed his frantic scrabbling at Sam's belt buckle, feeling the other man's fingers trailing across his face in a featherlight touch. The thumb of Sam's trembling hand brushed across Gene's lips and he drew it between them, sucking and caressing the digit with his tongue.  
  
 _This is… different_ , Gene thought. Sensual and unhurried, hands wandering, clothing gradually discarded as Sam climbed into his lap and kissed him slowly with both hands framing his face. Maybe he really _was_ turning into a fucking fairy, because it felt amazing. Sam's incessant wriggling brought their groins into naked contact, causing Gene to groan and reach for Sam's arse, grinding their bodies together as the smaller man smiled that slightly insane and infectious smile while he straddled Gene's thighs. He let his head loll back against the sofa cushions, luxuriating in the contact. There was something to be said for this face to face approach...  
  
Sam seemed to agree, hovering over Gene with an imploring expression in his eyes. Seconds away from flipping him face down over the arm of the couch and buggering him into next week like usual, Gene gave pause when Sam draped the full length of his upper body along Gene's torso and lifted his hips so that Gene's erection was aligned with Sam's entrance. Sam exhaled sharply, lips caressing Gene's earlobe. "Want you to take me this way, hold me like this. Would you…?"  
  
Who was he to refuse such a request? Gene ran a hand downward along Sam's flank, pressed flush against his own body and shivering at the touch. He ghosted a finger around Sam's puckered hole, teasing and applying light pressure to test his partner's readiness. "Don't even need to slick you up, do I? Did you get yourself ready for me, or have you been waiting for it since last time?"  
  
Sam arched his back and clawed at Gene's shoulders. He hissed as Sam's chest rubbed against his own, stimulating his nipples and causing his limbs to tingle with excitement. "This what you want, Sam?" Gene slowly pushed one finger into Sam's entrance as far as it could go, causing his partner to moan and curse as he twisted and withdrew. "Want me to fuck you like _this_ , let me watch you ride me like a horny little slut?" Sam's whisky-dark eyes snapped onto his, momentary anger giving way to fascinated longing as he saw the lust-drugged and frantic look in Gene's eyes, blown black pupils flitting over Sam's face like he was lost, drowning. "Because that's what _I_ want. Want to see you, _feel_ you. _Sam_ …!"  
  
Unwilling to wait any longer, Sam had pushed backward just so, forcing himself onto Gene's cock. And fuck, _fuck_ it was perfect like this. Gene's hips ground upward increasing the friction and drawing a breathy moan from Sam, who had his eyes shut and his head thrown back, the elegant line of his neck taut and tempting in Gene's direct line of vision. It was impossible to resist the urge to taste, and the skin was salty-sweet when Gene ran his tongue up from the hollow of Sam's throat to the side of his jaw. He could feel the blood pumping there in time with his own racing pulse.  
  
Then they were both moving, rocking together with one of Sam's arms clamped around his lover's neck and his arousal rubbing against Gene's stomach. Reaching a hand between their heated bodies, Gene fisted Sam's erection and stroked it in time with their quickening thrusts. There was so much heat between them that Gene could hardly breathe properly, nostrils full of Tyler's paper and clean soap scent as their stubbled faces rubbed against each other and Gene used the thumb of his free hand to rub and pull at his partner's hardened left nipple.  
  
Sam was an absolute picture, debauched and uninhibited as he controlled the pace, rolling his hips and crying out with each perfectly angled downward grinding motion. "Yes, _yessss_. Gene. Don't ever stop. Just… _more_." Their mouths crashed together as Gene lost control, jerking his hips against the hot clenching body above him, giving an involuntary shout as Sam's cock pulsed and erupted in his hand in perfect time with Gene's own release, buried to the hilt and holding the other man tight against him.  
  
After long moments of broken heavy breathing, Sam's face buried in Gene's neck as their sweat-slick bodies cooled, Gene gave a short laugh in the direction of the ceiling. "Fucking _hell_ , Tyler, I think you've killed me."  
  
One hand stroking over Gene's collarbone, Sam snorted. "With all the fags and booze you consume? I refuse to accept responsibility."  
  
Gene was again slightly alarmed by how natural and downright _good_ it felt to have Sam in his arms like this. Gene gave the younger man's back a final sweeping stroke with gentle fingers before slapping the outside of his thigh, urging him to move. "Hmmph. Speakin' of which…" Dragging himself up off the sofa onto legs that he would never admit felt slightly unsteady, Gene went to rummage in his coat pockets for a packet of cigarettes and his flask. Casting his eyes around the room, he located his striped undershorts and pulled them on along with the rumpled pink shirt.  
  
Choosing to remain unclothed-- the smarmy bastard-- Sam suddenly jumped up from his comfortably reclined position. "Oh, almost forgot. I got you something. Hold on…"  
  
Gene pouted, covering up his curiosity with a typical wave of sarcastic charm. "Showering me with gifts now, eh? Be still my fluttering heart." He surreptitiously eyed Sam's arse as he crossed the room.  
  
Finding the desired item on the shelf adjacent to his bed, Sam returned to his perch on the sofa and handed Gene a small parcel. The box was embossed with the emblem of one of Manchester's more upscale menswear shops, which caused Gene to raise an eyebrow-- though not so much as the actual contents of the package. "Wot's this then?"  
  
"It's a shirt. Definitely your size, I checked."  
  
"It's… _purple_."  
  
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, a pedantic gesture which probably would have had more effect had he not been stark-bollock naked. "Lilac, actually."  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Gene lit a fag. "Oh, well _that's_ a substantial improvement. _Lilac_. The whole of A Division will be calling me an arse-bandit behind my back!"  
  
"Oh come on, Guv." Now Tyler was laughing at him. "Everyone knows you're a raging heterosexual if there ever was one. it's _me_ they're always calling a poofter, not that I'm bothered…"  
  
Gene blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling and shook his head incredulously. "Oh dearie me, why would they ever think such a thing!"  
  
"Says the man who shagged me stupid not ten minutes ago."  
  
Glaring, Gene leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Allow me to ask this question in a manner that is both clear and extremely bloody concise. What am I supposed to do with a purple shirt? Pair it with a floral jumper and challenge Litton to a flamin' ponce-off?!"  
  
Looking oddly shy and a bit defeated, Sam fixed his eyes on the floor. "I thought you might wear it sometime, when the pink one is in the wash. You know, so we could…"  
  
Gene's eyes widened in understanding, but Sam misinterpreted the intrigued surprise in his expression as outrage.  
  
"Oh, just forget it. I'll bring it back. Sure I've still got the sales receipt somewhere…"  
  
Sam reached for the box, but Gene could be impressively quick when he wanted to. Grabbing Sam at the crook of his elbow, he pulled him closer. "Are you propositioning me, Inspector?"  
  
Scrambling to stop himself from falling into his superior officer's lap, Sam braced his free hand on the arm of Gene's chair. "Errr… that was the general idea, yes."  
  
Gene stood, squaring up to Sam and eyeing him steadily. "Well then, I'd better take myself off home and find a tie that matches. Unless you had something else in mind…"  
  
Grabbing both sides of Gene's open shirt front, Sam dragged him closer until their naked chests were pressed together yet again. "I don't know, Guv. Seems the pink one has some life in it yet. Wouldn't want to waste an opportunity."  
  
"Tart."  
  
Sam's caustic retort was swallowed up in the midst of a frenzied kiss as the pink shirt fluttered down to the dingy carpeted floor, momentarily forgotten.  
  
 **xxxxx**  
 **FIN**  
 **xxxxx**  



End file.
